Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Monday morning, the knuckles on The Spouse’s right hand were red and raw. When asked about it, The Spouse shrugged it off and smirked.
Liam finished his visit to his parents. He left with an extra pound cake and a fresh black eye.
The coffee maker made a mysterious and sudden reappearance on the kitchen counter. The Spouse’s apple juice has suddenly and mysteriously stopped getting watered down.
Shopping for maternity-friendly swimsuits that wouldn’t expose the fake belly is the most humbling experience I’ve ever had.
And I made it through years of classical dance lessons and Quantico.
With any luck, I won’t have to use the swimsuit and can happily burn it in the backyard after the spa day is over.
Despite my freak-out, I’m not worried about my recent realization concerning my feelings for The Spouse. Really. It’s a stupid crush I developed because we’re pretending to be in love and he finally opened up to me. It will pass. Perhaps like a kidney stone, but it’ll pass all the same.
Moving around without the extra shoulder straps on the belly has proved unnatural. It is my opinion that I could dip a kettlebell in oil, strap it to me, and accomplish the same sensation. But with less sweat.
I still don’t know the difference between a Swedish massage and a Shiatsu massage, but the Swedish one probably doesn’t involve meatballs. Which is a crying shame.
If I make it through the spa day unscathed, it will be a freaking miracle.
VIVIENNE GREETED ME with a hug when I finally managed to waddle into the spa’s lobby.
I held the bottom of my tummy in place as it threatened to slide off me, courtesy of the sheen of sweat coating my real stomach.
With any luck, the silicone stomach wouldn’t make any conspicuous squelching noises.
Considering my luck thus far, though, I wasn’t banking on it.
She didn’t seem to think the action unnatural and instead chatted happily about the spa’s various amenities as she led me to the front desk.
“Hello, ladies!” the attendant chirped. “Welcome to Bella’s Bliss Salon and Spa. Do you have an appointment with us?”
Vivienne confirmed our appointment, apparently complete with the “total package” and a couples’ prenatal massage.
“I hope it’s okay I booked the massages as a couples’ massage,” she rushed out, resting a hand on my arm and her brow furrowing. “I just want someone to talk to and don’t want you to be alone too much for your first spa day.”
I smiled, touched by her thoughtfulness.
I’d be more touched if I were actually pregnant and didn’t run the risk of her finding out my stomach was fake, since we’d be in the same room now.
But, she’d be relaxed and hopefully chatty during the massage.
If I were to discreetly probe for information, this was my best bet by far.
I’d just have to ask the masseuse not to massage my back.
Or claim I was wearing one of those belly support bands under my tank top and absolutely couldn’t take it off under any circumstances.
I swallowed down the trepidation rising in my throat. “That’s really thoughtful, actually. A couples’ massage sounds great.”
I’d just have to get creative.
The attendant sorted out payment for each of us, the total cost enough to shrivel up any plans of treating myself to a latte on the way home.
Or for the foreseeable future. McBride probably wouldn’t be happy about footing the bill for an all-inclusive spa day, but I’d cross that bridge if I ever got to it.
I accepted my plush robe and slippers from the receptionist and adjusted my bag on my shoulder. “So, um, are we going to have to wear these the whole time? With, uh” —I swallowed hard— “nothing underneath?”
Worrying about exposing my belly was one thing. Worry about that and exposing everything else was another.
Vivienne laughed. “I highly recommend keeping your underwear on. Otherwise, it’s up to you and what you’re comfortable with. But for the facials, you’ll have to undress anyway, so I mainly wear the robe and slippers.”
Facials? We had to get naked for something they do to our face ? What had I gotten myself into?
We deposited our personal effects in some lockers, including the majority of our clothing. My power panties were in the wash, so today I was rocking some of the ugliest grandma pairs this side of the Mississippi.
At least it matched my swimsuit’s aesthetic.
I kept my tank top on, over my belly instead of providing the anti-squelching layer it usually did.
The silicone stomach bore a passing resemblance to a real belly when exposed, but the effect would be lost if anyone got close enough to realize there was an unnatural end and beginning to the paleness.
The fluffy robe was divine, and the slippers were comfy, though. Maybe this experience wouldn’t be so bad after all.
It took approximately thirty seconds for me to eat those words, which was about how long it took for us to reach our massage room.
This was going to suck.
Two massage tables sat next to each other, a towel neatly folded on each amongst a series of pillow-like pads of various shapes. No curtain in between. No screen. Nothing. Vivienne and I would be in full view of each other the. whole. time.
Panic built in my chest, my heart accelerating like a hotdog rolling down a hill.
What if the masseuse didn’t honor my request and strayed too close to the Velcro?
Or—worse—what if they hit it just right, so it started unclasping?
The telltale ripping sound would echo around the globe.
Everyone and their dog would hear it. I wasn’t confident my belly band plan would convince Vivienne if push came to shove.
Think, think, think . There had to be some way to swing this.
“Don’t worry” —Vivienne smiled, misinterpreting my discomfort— “by the time they finish with the scalp massage, you’ll wonder why you’ve never had one of these before. They’ll take good care of you.”
Yeah, that was what I was worried about.
I returned her smile shakily, already planning a graceless exit thanks to convenient third trimester morning sickness. That was a thing, right? I’d make it a thing. Maybe I could blame it on some bad shrimp from this morning. Because normal people totally ate shrimp for breakfast.
But if I skipped out on this, would that damage my budding friendship with Vivienne? Even if it didn’t, was it worth missing the prime opportunity to talk with her without Charles or his boy band listening in?
If I got caught, none of that would matter.
My panic rose higher when Vivienne stripped off her robe, revealing only a strapless wrap around her chest and some decidedly much more stylish panties. Would she think it was weird that I kept my tank top on?
I slowly took off my robe, my mind whirling and gut lurching nauseatingly. Maybe I wouldn’t have to fake my upset stomach after all.
Vivienne let out a low whistle. “I’ve got to come to your classes if they give you biceps like that .”
So she also wasn’t above looking at me throughout this. Perfect. Just freaking perfect.
“Thanks.” I laughed, trying to dislodge the balloon of nerves squeezing my lungs and heart into my ribcage. “I imagine they’re nothing compared to you or your clients, what with being a fitness coach and all.”
She waved off my deflection. “Be proud of your results, girl. Comparison is the thief of joy. That’s what I tell all my clients.”
I dipped my head to the side, pretending like I was considering her advice instead of fighting to take a full breath.
She used the steps next to her table to climb up. “If you want, you can wait until your masseuse comes in and tells you how to position yourself with the pillows, since they’re the professionals.”
I sighed in relief, desperate for whatever time I could get to think of a way out of this sticky situation. Either I jeopardized my relationship with her, or I jeopardized getting caught. Catch twenty-two. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that.”
My heart leapt into my throat when the door opened. A blonde with her hair pulled into a tight bun on the top of her head entered, wearing the same scrub-like sky-blue uniform the front desk attendant had been wearing, too.
She smiled, addressing me first. “I’m sorry for the delay, ma’am. Monique isn’t feeling well, so is it alright with you if another member of our staff works with you?”
I nodded so enthusiastically my head threatened to pop off. “That’s no problem at all.”
The masseuse turned her attention to Vivienne, who had already situated herself on the weirdest shaped pillow. “Great! You’re already undressed and ready. Looks like you’ve had a prenatal massage before, correct?”
I tuned out their small talk. So far, my best bet was still feigning food poisoning.
I’d just wait until the technician arrived and attempt to look as sick as possible in the meantime.
I would run out of the room holding my mouth in the universal clear the way, I’m gonna hurl sign.
It wouldn’t be great, but it couldn’t be worse than being discovered, right?
I didn’t have time to solidify my plan of action before the door opened. Another sky-blue scrub-like uniform entered, and when I saw who wore it, the knot in my stomach immediately eased.
“Hello, miss.” Hattie smiled widely, her eyes twinkling behind her glasses. “My name is Hattie, and I’ll be taking care of you.”
I went through the motions of introducing myself, too, knowing full well she knew who I was. How was she here? Is this what her day job was? And if so, what were the odds?
Slim.
Too slim.
As the other masseuse distracted Vivienne with a question, I whispered, “How are you here?”